


The Queen lent him one

by WinterIsobel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Christmas Presents, Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, More Fluff, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 12:27:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17141744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterIsobel/pseuds/WinterIsobel
Summary: It's Christmas and John decides to plan an unforgettable trip for Rose.The final destination is far better than expected.





	The Queen lent him one

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hotaru_Tomoe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hotaru_Tomoe/gifts).



> Important:  
> -Italic is for Sherlock's/Mycroft's texts, underline is for John's  
> -You can find the translations for the morse code messages at the end of the ff, if you prefer to read it as you proceed.

 

 

 

The winter sky promises to snow this year and items for the holidays have conquered all the shelves of London, nothing but a sparkling of lights and little Santas greeting you everywhere.

The newspapers have their good share and that’s where John reads the article.

_'The Perfect Christmas'_

A team of developmental psychologists analyse the impact of Christmas’s celebrations on children. He devours it with a mix of curiosity and apprehension.

Rose is turning six next February, and these years are gonna be important. For her memories. For their memories together. Her childhood.

John doesn’t think too much about his own childhood anymore. He has blurry memories of his mum cooking and singing Christmas’ songs. And then she died -he was seven years old- and all he can remember are anonymous holidays spent home -from school, from the Uni-. He couldn’t quite place this so much praised spirit of celebration, until he went living on his own, making friends and colleagues. But even then, when you’ve to come back home alone, there is little to do against loneliness.

Apart from the Christmases spent in Baker Street before Sherlock’s -fake- death, he can’t say to have ever truly tasted any so-called Christmas spirit.

“What do you remember of your Christmases, when you were a child?”

Sherlock is floating in some sort of meditative state when John asks him. Nowadays he and Rose spend more time in Baker Street then in their flat. Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock are a huge help and whenever he is not working at the hospital, or once they have taken care of Rose, it’s nice to follow Sherlock down the crime scene and hear how fast and brilliant he can be, pointing out the whole life of the latest murderer. Or victim. And Sherlock shines even more when it comes to Rose, foreseeing everything she could ever need, supportive and caring to the both of them.

Sherlock seizes him with a curious frown, answering.

“My mother uses to host a dinner on Christmas’ Eve. A lot of people. I remember the glasses on the table. And the wood logs next to the fire. I remember how bored I was, Mycroft eating my cake. Why are you asking?” 

“I red an article, yesterday. About children’s early memories during these holidays.”

“Mhmh. And you are worrying about Rose”, he deduces, joining his hands.

John leans forward, sitting on the edge of his chair.

“I think I should try harder this year. Give her some good memories for the years to come. Make it the perfect Christmas.”

Sherlock stares at him for no less than thirty seconds, before blinking, waking up from whatever epiphany he is having.

“I see”.

And just like that, he resumes his silent reflections. So much for help, John thinks.

John sights and opens the search engine on his own laptop. It’s the 21th, for God’s sake. Better hurry up.

 

 

Next day he is making tea when he decides to share the new developments.

“I made some researches after reading that article. And I decided to give Rose the best holiday she can remember.”

“Oh..I’m glad you decided to talk about it-”

“I am going to take her on an organized trip. In Inverness”, he proceeds to explain. “I found a last-minute offer. The flight is about one hour, not too long for a child of her age. There is a programme for families. There are gonna be a lot of children and she will see the parade, the celebrations and play with the snow. And we could also book a tour on a real carriage.” Sherlock is observing him with a puzzled expression, almost lost. “What do you think?” John presses, already worried he might have choose the wrong trip.

“I..” Sherlock rushes up, walking around the room as he speaks.

“I think you’re going to have fun. She will love it. It’s a beautiful idea”

John sights, relieved. “And there is gonna be a great dinner, with all kind of Christmas specials, you know..like potato salad and stuffed turkey and pudding. I could never cook any of it, even if I tried.”

Sherlock sends a text and enter the kitchen, raising his sleeve and occupying himself with the bottles and various instruments on the table.

“When are you due to leave?”

“On 23th in the afternoon.”

“I see”, John hears over the mess of the glasses in the sink.

“You have plans?” he watches Sherlock’s back as he insists to tidy up the kitchen.

He turns slightly, a tired smile on his lips.

“Oh, you know me John. I hate mundanities. I’ll see my parents and Mycroft and make my excuses before dessert.”

He has been neglecting himself in the last weeks, a case after another, and a bad cold in between. He hasn’t even fully recovered yet. John is about to scold him about getting some rest, at least during the holidays, when Sherlock’s phone precedes him.

It’s Lestrade. Other work.

Sherlock leaves soon after with the promise to catch up tomorrow before they leave, and John is left with the planning of the trip and a daughter about to be picked up from the nursery.

 

 

On 23th, in the rush of planning everything and dealing with an lively six-years-old, John has barely the time to visit all the people he wants to. He stops at Bart’s, the Yard, a few friends, and finally he parks outside Baker Street. Rose follows him hand in hand to the door, over-excited to see Sherlock and Mrs.Hudson.

The landlady opens the door but greets John with her old tone, the one she used whenever he did something very stupid, like punching Sherlock in the face, or refusing to talk to him.

“John..!”

She changes expression as quickly as London’s weather to welcome _her Rose_ , hugging her tightly before suggesting her to take advantage of the muffins in the kitchen. He follows, unsure of the whys of the woman’s reaction.

“We stopped by to wish you all happy Christmas before leaving for the station”. He adds lower, “Everything all right?”

“You tell me”, Mrs. Hudson sights. “Did you two argue?” She tilts her head toward the stairs.

“With Sherlock? Not at all. Why?”

“He has been so moody since you were here the other day, and early this morning a delivery boy came, with these huge boxes. A lot of them. And he just told them to take everything upstairs and then closed in his bedroom.”

“Is he upstairs?” John asks, already moving. What is Sherlock up to?

“Heard him going out earlier. He’s still out”

Shit. They are supposed to take the train in two hours. They are going to leave soon.

He waits with a heavy heart, Mrs. Hudson and Rose chatting in front of the telly and when it’s clear they have run out of time he tries to text him.

_ Where are you? We dropped by to see you before departure 14:23 _

_I’m sorry. Consult is taking longer than expected. 14:23_

_ We wanted to wish you Happy Christmas 14:24 _

That’s what he wanted to text. But if that’s so, why do the words taste all wrong?

He looks at the clock. They really have to go. And Sherlock is not texting back.

He has just finished to dress up Rose and Mrs.Hudson is covering her in kisses when his phone chips again.

_Give Rose a kiss from me. 14:32_

_Happy Christmas to the both of you. 14:32_

 

 

King Cross is packed with people arriving and leaving, swirling among each other dragging around bags and bags full of presents -received, to deliver- and John walks in as well, hand in hand with Rose. His mind is elsewhere.

They were supposed to see Sherlock.

To check if he was alright (God knows if he even took the paracetamol John prescribed him).

To hug him and wish him happy Christmas

To..

 

He is looking at the departure board but his mind is all focused on Baker Street.

Mrs.Hudson said he has been acting weird.

Maybe he didn’t want to spend the holidays with his family. That’s possible, but not enough to explain it. And the delivery man? What is Sherlock up to? He does shop online only when he needs stuff for a case. And yes, when John asks help about Ro-

 

_Give Rose a kiss from me._

_Happy Christmas to the both of you._

 

John Watson stands in the middle of King Cross, on 23th December, when he realizes he is an idiot.

An utter, unbeli-

A pull to his hand distracts him for good.

Rose

“Papa..”

She looks sad.

“Yes, sweetheart?”, he lowers on his knee and adjust her hat.

“Papa, where is Sherlock?”

 

 

How could he be so blind, all this time?

 

 

The drive to Baker Street seems the longest ever, but John puts his time to good use, explaining Rose why they are not going on their trip anymore. She doesn’t seem to bother, and a grin builds up as soon as she realizes they are going back to Sherlock’s.

John insults himself over and over until he has paid the fare and knocked at the door.

Sherlock is part of their lives. More than just a friend, or a colleague.

He is essential. He would die for the both of them, do anything in his power for them. But John’s stupidity and Sherlock’s insecurities in fact of human relations brought them to avoid the elephant in the room.

They are a family.

Yes, John has been pining for years, and he might as well continue. But the undeserved pleasure to see Sherlock and Rose napping on the sofa, or taking them out on dinner. To love them, and them loving each other. He is not going to waste it.

Sherlock might be smart, but John keeps up sometimes.

Sherlock is at home. Has been here the whole time. He made Mrs.Hudson believe he left, so he didn’t have to say them goodbye.

After all, he texted them right when they were about to leave the flat.  

He steps inside their flat. At least six Amazon boxes obstruct the entrance to the dining room. Someone – likely Sherlock- opened them, maybe to check, but the items must be still inside. John takes a look.

Decorations.

Cooking books about all sorts of festive menus. A Michael Bublé’s vinyl. What the hell?

But when he raises his eyes he is greeted with a huge Christmas tree, placed between the fireplace and the kitchen. Still bare.

John lets go of his scarf as he marches toward Sherlock’s bedroom. The door is ajar and he steps in without making himself known.

And there he is. Sometimes even John can guess things rights.

He is sitting on the floor, between the bed and the cupboard, his forehead tilted against his knees. The arms crossed on is lap. John’s heart aches.

 

 "Sherlock.."

 

Sherlock startles a little. He was probably drifting, lost in his Mind Palace or..

He raises his head to stare, a good amount of surprise in his red eyes. He didn't even hear him taking the stairs. 

 

"..John?"  

 

"Get up from there" John hears himself murmur, as he steps inside. "How long have you been on the floor?"

He grabs his left shoulder, the arm and helps him up to sit on the edge of the mattress. Sherlock's hands are dead-cold. 

"You..your train. Rose-"

He is wearing one of those thin cotton shirts and the bottom of his pyjamas. When he’s still having a cold. This moronic, absurd, brilliant idiot..

"Forget the bloody train" John grabs a spare plaid spread over the duvet and places it on Sherlock's shoulders.

"She is downstairs" he adds.

He rubs his hands all over Sherlock’s forearms vigorously, trying to add some warmth.

"You are freezing". He observes Sherlock but for some reason, the other seems to avoid his eyes as he stares at his lap.  "You are going to miss it", he points out.

"Yes, I am", he says, matter of factly. And Sherlock’s eyes are on him. The words come one after another in a flood.

"I couldn't. I couldn't leave. I-", John sits on the mattress as well. "I am an idiot. I just thought about Rose and-"

"She is your daughter, J-"

 

" _No_ "

 

He shakes his head. How could Sherlock consider himself out of the picture? Time to make up for his wrongs in the matter. He cups Sherlock’s jaw to make sure the message goes through.

"No, Sherlock..she is ours. And I was about to make you spend Christmas' Day without her. Without.."

Too much. He wants to apologise, wants to brush his fingers on Sherlock’s cheek, hug him, bring Rose upstairs, never read that stupid article, kiss-

Sherlock is staring at him, a broken expression on his face that make John decide for a hug instead. Sherlock is shaking a little, maybe not used to be touched like this, shaken by John’s behaviour and words. He distances himself a little, shaking his head.

"I don't..I don't know how to arrange a perfect Christmas party for her. For you two. I ordered stuff. Decorations. Still in the boxes. Didn't brought a turkey, today it's too late to find a good one. I made researches on the different breeds in the UK. No time to get one from abroad. And ..the- "

“Shut up” John almost laughs, reducing Sherlock’s tirade to silence, a hand on his mouth.

 

"I was wrong. She doesn't need all of that. She needs Mrs.Hudson with her cinnamon rolls and Mycroft pretending to be too busy to play cake and tea with her when in fact he dies to. _She needs you.”_ He murmurs, grabbing his shoulders. “She gloats whenever you play just for her, and read her whatever book you pick up, even if she doesn't get what peroxides are yet. When you comb her hair and she whispers you I'm totally unable to dress it so it has to be you. Christmas is more than just presents, lights and parties.”. He moves his hand to brush his curly, messy hair out of the way. Sherlock’s eyes are burning. “You should spend it with the people you care the most." He swallows, eyes fixed on Sherlock’s parted, pleading lips. "With the people you- "

 

"Papa!"

 

They both need a second to register the interruption and turning toward the door, just as Rose steps in, trotting next to the bed, still dressed in her velvet coat.

"What are you doing?", she demands to know as she climbs onto the bed next to Sherlock and hugs him, snuggling against his chest. Sherlock embraces her tightly and kisses her.

"I overslept, but Papa woke me up", Sherlock’s voice comes, shaken but light.

"Good morning" she adds, smiling.

They both burst into laughs, her remark so similar to John's.

Eyes search eyes and they are staring at each other again when John decides to take the lead. He stands up and addresses their daughter.

"Sherlock needs to have a bath, or he is not going to receive any present. What if we lit up the fire and prepare some cookies, Watson?"

"Yees!" She runs into him just to be picked up on their way out, cheering loudly of milk and chocolate. John allows himself another glance toward Sherlock. 

"Don't want to see you for at least half an hour. Warm up. We'll be in the kitchen."

Sherlock nods, and John needs all his strength to not go back into the room and smash their faces together.

He texts Mycroft while Roses plays with the dough.

 

_ I need a favour 18:16 _

 

He is the most influent man in the UK. Time to put him on good use.

 

He sends him a list and adds a post scriptum.

 

_ Rose is making cookies. She will see you tomorrow at 5pm. 18:20 _

_Of course. 18:21_

 

He puts away the phone and sits down. There is a father-to-daughter talk to deal with.

"Watson, I need your help with something".

"Other cookies?" she asks. Her latest cookie looks like a violin.

"No sweetie, it's a present, for Sherlock. A very, very special one. But it's up to you to decide.”

 

 

They spend the evening together and John and Rose sleep in his old room. They have the luggage from their planned trip, after all. No point in going back to the other flat. Next day, they unpack all the boxes from Amazon and John holds back from pointing out that Sherlock has been exaggerating with quantities and budget. Really, six sets of hangings?

They go out for dinner, Angelo welcoming them no matter how busy he is with all the reservations, Mrs Hudson joining them this time. He catches Sherlock stealing glances now and then, when he thinks he is not paying attention.

Later that night, John brings Rose upstairs. She is already asleep, and he gets under the covers himself, cuddled by the sound of Sherlock’s violin.

 

It’s Christmas’ Eve, and John Watson has never been so impatient to wake up.

 

  

He wakes up early, and makes breakfast before waking up Rose, who wakes up Sherlock chatting no-stop until he gets up to have breakfast as well.

 They proceed unwrapping their presents, starting from John’s.

 John had the few from their friends moved from his flat, and a few others mysteriously made their appearance under the tree during the night. Sherlock’s doing, obviously.

 

But even Sherlock has to give up against the Watsons.

There is a huge red envelope waiting for him under the branches. He will have deduced it’s from the stationery store in Westminster in matter of seconds. But for once, John is adamant he is never going to deduce what’s inside.

“What is that?” Sherlock’s asks while Roses unwraps her present.

“My present” Rose says, just like Sherlock when he is obliged to explain something boringly obvious.

Sherlock remains silent, but his eyes jumps from John, to her to the envelope with consuming curiosity. John can barely hold back a grin.

When Rose is done, she insists it’s Sherlock’s turn but when he moves to grab the envelope, she stops him. Just like she and John have planned.

“Wait!”

“Why?” Sherlock asks.

“The others’ first. Mine is better”

Sherlock laughs, and stares at John, looking for some clue and finding none. It must be frustrating. He smiles instead and proceeds to unwrap them.

And finally he has the envelope for himself. 

“So, this is your present?”, Sherlock is seizing her with sappy eyes.

“Yep”

“Yours and Papa’s?” Sherlock guesses. His thumb draws circles at the corner of the envelope. 

She shakes her head vigorously.

“My present. Papa said.” They both chuckle. And Sherlock opens it.

John knows what Sherlock is seeing. Simple paper, a letter. It took no longer than ten minutes to make Rose write it down. 

 

 

-.-- --- ..- / .- .-. . / -- -.-- / -.. .- -.. / ... --- / .. / .- -- / --. --- .. -. --. / - --- / -.-. .- .-.. .-.. / -.-- --- ..- / -.. .- -.. .-.-.-

 

\-- . .-. .-. -.-- / -.-. .... .-. .. ... - -- .- ... / -.. .- -.. --..-- / .. / .-.. --- ...- . / -.-- --- ..- -.-.—   *****

 

 

The paper begins shaking in Sherlock's hands as he proceeds to decode it.

It takes no longer than a minute. 

Then he moves his eyes on Rose and ..just stares. John melts over Rose’s words.

"Papa helped me. He said these are like letters but more funny and that you can teach me. That I can call you Dad now and that it's like the best present ever. Do you like it?"

Sherlock looks over to John and that look says _just everything_.

 "Your Papa is very clever. I like it so very much." Sherlock murmurs, his voice more and more emotional. _Ah._ " I just.. there is something in my eye" he adds, turning his head slightly, probably fighting the tears back. Not willing to show them to her. Some fall down anyway. And John steps in, from his seat on the sofa, right beside him, places a hand on Sherlock's nape and drags him down in a clumsy hug, indulging him.

 Right before shouting.

"Pennguins!"

"W-hat?" Sherlock startles, caught off guard. He raises his head a little and seems he is the only one unaware of what is going on because Rose is nodding and heads toward the stairs singing out loud.

 

"One hundred! Ninety nine! Ninety eight.."

 

At Sherlock confused expression, John explains. 

"I taught her a safe word to give us a moment if things got..out of hand? She needs to go downstairs counting down. Then she starts again and comes back upstairs. So, we have about two minutes. If she doesn't forget it and starts talking with-" 

His hand is still on Sherlock’s neck, silently massaging him. Sherlock is almost shaking.

“You are ok, Sherlock.” He moves even closer. “We are here.”

It’s a little unfair that Sherlock can be this beautiful even when crying.

"John, I.."

John sweeps away the tears, but his hand lingers on the spot.

"I have a present as well", he admits quietly. Sherlock huffs, and look under the tree.

“Even if I deduce it right away?"

_Oh, Sherlock.._

John holds his breath.

"Not this one. Close your eyes"

He does.

 

John breathes out and he’s kissing Sherlock.

 

At first, Sherlock freezes. John is already considering what to do when Sherlock whines and his mouth moves tentatively, almost fearful. His hand trembles on John’s jaw. And John is filled with the need to never let him go. He drags him closer, no more hesitations. Sherlock’s arm rests against his back, embracing him so tightly John can’t hold back a moan. They kiss, and kiss, and kiss.

 

At some point they break away, and that’s when John spots Rose sitting on Sherlock's armchair, looking at them with a mischievous grin. Sherlock’s grin from when he’s just solved a case.

Good Lord.

He feels his ears burning red.

 

"Rose, weren't you supposed to count?" He asks in a strained voice. Sherlock huffs, amused and likely a little embarrassed himself.

"I did. Then Mrs. Hudson gave me tea and showed me the book with the big flowers, and we watched telly. She is sleeping now."

"Ah".

So much of counting to one hundred. 

"And you came back upstairs", Sherlock states, turning to face her properly, but without putting any distance between their bodies.

"Telly is boring. Can I stay here, Dad?"

John sees the best smile he has ever seen bluming on Sherlock. The only one he wants to see from now on.

"Of course. But I was about to read a book. Are you sure you can hear me from there, Rose?"

She nods and walks over the couch where Sherlock helps her up before retrieving a book from the table.

Sherlock glances at John, a promise of further things to come. Later. 

“Have you ever heard of Gingkophyte?”

 

 

Around midday, Mycroft makes his appearance, followed by his and Sherlock’s parents, Mrs. Hudson and a couple of security men, bringing with them a ton of food, and wine, and a giant turkey. At Sherlock’s shocked expression, John shrugs, whispering.

“The Queen lent him one. Just this year.”

 

  

They have lunch, spend the day together, and when night comes, they are gone and Rose is asleep in her room, John comes back downstairs and joins Sherlock by the fireplace.

They kiss, and then they are on the carpet and touching, so slowly and John could die now but then Sherlock moves beneath him and then they are not close enough, and there is nothing but Sherlock, Sherlock, oh God.. _Sherlock_.

He’s still floating in a state he is inclined to consider his personal heaven, when Sherlock kisses the corner of his mouth, breathing hard and smiling.

“Merry Christmas, John.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  **Morse code:**

***You are my Dad so I am going to call you Dad.**

**Merry Christmas Dad, I love you!**

 

**Author's Note:**

> I needed to create some Christmas spirit for these holidays and the idea came up from nowhere.  
> I hope you are going ot enjoy it. I wish you all a very happy Christmas.
> 
> I gift this work to my dear Hotaru_Tomoe  
> Merry Christmas!


End file.
